


Certain Obscure Things

by Sigridhr



Category: Captain Marvel (2019), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Curses, F/F, Tentacle Monsters, True Love, beauty and the beast if you squint, but dumber, but with a kind of eat pray love vibe, darcy heals people by being a Good Egg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:53:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22271362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sigridhr/pseuds/Sigridhr
Summary: A mission for Carol goes very, very badly. Darcy winds up accidentally picking up the pieces.
Relationships: Carol Danvers/Darcy Lewis
Comments: 15
Kudos: 45





	Certain Obscure Things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amidtheflowers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amidtheflowers/gifts).



> This is a birthday present for the best and most amazing friend a person could ever ask for, [amidtheflowers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amidtheflowers/pseuds/amidtheflowers). I am honestly blessed every single day for knowing her, and she has been with me through the best and worst days of nearly all my adult life. I would almost certainly be a worse person and a worse friend if I had never met her. Happy Birthday my most wonderful of humans! I love you very much.
> 
> So, I wrote her a story where Darcy saves the day by being good at sex. It seemed appropriate.

_I don’t love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz,  
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:  
I love you as one loves certain obscure things,  
secretly, between the shadow and the soul._

...

Carol isn’t really sure how her own skin fits anymore. Some of it still feels Kree, and she wants to peel it off, to pull it from her bones and scrub it clean off her until she is raw. Her power courses through her veins almost stronger than blood and it prickles for having been shut away so long, almost in agreement with her own confused sense of self. She’s still not fully used to the feeling of it unrestrained, and she resents it for feeling odd in her own body, _her own body_ , that has been chained and locked down for so long. 

She wonders often if the fact that she feels so out of control, so unrestrained, is still a remnant of her Kree training or a genuine concern. It’s hard to parse which feelings are truly hers and which ones are still the tendrils of the Supreme Intelligence wrapped around her mind, repressing and pressing, always pushing her down, pushing her forward. 

Well, she’s on her own now, and she feels like a mess. She spends as much time away from Earth as possible because the world no longer fits. It feels entirely familiar to her and yet she never seems to slot back in, like she’s an oddly shaped puzzle piece. She knows it’s home, but she feels like she’s someone else living in Carol’s body. Like she herself is a lie, not just what she’s been told. Maria’s home smells familiar but the problem is that her clothes crackle with ozone and she feels like a stranger. She feels the way Maria’s gaze travels over her with speculation. She tries to find the right answers, the right set of behaviours to unlock the person Maria hopes she still is, but it never seems to quite work. After a time, Maria stops trying. They’re never as close as they were, and Carol can almost taste the bitterness of what she’s lost but can’t remember enough to really _know_.

She’s in Pancho’s, her fingers wrapped around her bottle of beer. The condensation is cold against her hands which are always just a little too warm. She’s staring blankly forwards when someone flops down into the booth across from her. 

“Budweiser, really?”

The girl sitting in front of her is crinkling her nose at Carol’s drink, her hands resting on a thick red folder. She shoves a glass of something hoppy in Carol’s direction. 

“Here, local craft beer. Despite that, it’s actually quite nice.” 

“Normally people ask before buying drinks,” Carol replies flatly. She takes a pointed swig or her Bud. 

The girl gives her a sardonic half-smile. “SHIELD isn’t great at asking. Plus it’s a company card so I’m trying to put as many vaguely questionable expenses on as possible. I’m on a quest to expense the weirdest meal, suggestions welcome.” 

“There’s a Chinese-French fusion cuisine place up the way that serves the weirdest shit,” Carol says. “Go there.” The ‘and leave me alone’ is implied. 

“Wicked,” the girl says. “Fury’ll love that.”

Carol looks up, her eyes narrowing. “Fury?”

“Mmph,” says the girl, her mouth full of peanuts. “Yeah. He said you were a tough cookie and really annoying so he sent me - mostly because he thinks I’m equally annoying and he’s an idiot who finds the idea of the two of us annoying each other funny.” 

“I’m Darcy,” she says, wiping her hand on her jeans and then extending it out towards Carol. “Resident annoyance at SHIELD HQ.” 

Carol can’t help but grin a little bit, so she gives Darcy’s hand a shake. “And what does Fury want?” Her eyes flick down to the folder on the table. 

Darcy shoves it to her. “Some kind of space bullshit going down in Colorado. Fury wants you to take a look.” 

“Define space bullshit,” says Carol, turning the file around and flipping it open. 

Darcy just shrugs. “Above my pay grade.” 

“Really?” Carol asks, flipping through the file absentmindedly. “And yet they were fine with you bringing me the file?”

Darcy gives her a grin. “Fine, my speciality is Norse gods and Other Ancient Bullshit. This is a little more tentacle-y. I know it’s an enormous, bulbous, horrendous and any other -ous words you can think of monster thing that’s eaten three people and one chihuahua already and SHIELD has it trapped in a dog park in a highly conspicuous, nothing-to-see-here installation that is driving the locals onto reddit to make up conspiracy theories. So Fury wants you to, you know…” she pantomimes something like punching and then makes a sound of an explosion. “Nuke it.” 

“Fury’s right,” says Carol as she downs her beer. “You are annoying.” 

“Oh, yeah,” says Darcy. “Force of habit. Nagging is the only way to get things done.” 

Carol raises an eyebrow, and stands up, tucking the file under her arm. “Come on then.” 

“What? To Colorado. Nah, I’m good.”

“To General Tso’s Escargots.”

Darcy stares at her for a very long moment. “You are joking.”

“Nope,” says Carol blandly. “They serve gratin and lemon chicken.” 

“Fuck right off,” says Darcy. “Do they itemise receipts?” 

Carol just shrugs and heads out of Pancho’s. She can hear Darcy’s little half-run to catch up with her. 

“So, the, uh, tentacle thing? You gonna have a look at that or no?” Darcy asked. 

“Maybe,” Carol says, teasingly. “Depends how annoying you are.” 

Darcy mumbles something that features the name ‘Fury’ and some uncomplimentary adjectives. “Right, well, snails and sweet and sour pork it is, I guess.” 

General Tso’s Escargots is worse than anyone could have imagined. The hybrid cuisine was not helped by horrendous fluorescent lighting and the only menu options seemed like someone had randomly pulled two entrees out of a hat and put them together. It was, in short: an abomination. Darcy orders one of everything mental after confirming that the receipt would list them all and Carol laughed as they tried them one by one, enjoying the way Darcy’s nose wrinkles in disgust. 

“These are just things that are not meant to go together!” Darcy protests. 

Carol wonders if that’s true of them too. Admittedly, nothing seems quite right in here. But the easy flow between them makes her weirdly nervous. She feels out of practice, oddly uncertain where she used to be effortless. But the faces Darcy pulls makes her laugh, and the way she chews an escargot and then spits it out in disgust makes Carol snort her wine. 

“So, this monster,” she begins.

“Scylla,” says Darcy, with a mouth full of rice. 

“Is that where it’s from?” Carol asks.

Darcy laughs and chokes on a bit of rice. “No, Scylla’s the tentacle monster from Greek mythology. The one that eats sailors. Seems fitting.”

“Hmm,” says Carol, shoving her food away. “Are we the sailors, then?”

“You keep saying ‘we’,” says Darcy, pointing at her with her chopsticks. “There is no ‘we.’ My job was to tell you to fight the big scary monster. Job is now done. All that’s left is for me to rack up expenses.”

“Think of all the expenses you’d rack up going to Colorado,” says Carol, teasingly. “Besides, what if I need a Greek mythology primer?”

Darcy just rolls her eyes. “Then read a book. God, this food is disgusting.” 

Darcy pays for them both ostentatiously, and then signs the name Nick Fury on the receipt, dotting the ‘i’ with a heart. Carol wonders absentmindedly how Fury manages to pick up so many maddening women, but in the same breath feels he absolutely deserves it. She misses him sometimes - though she drops in, it doesn’t really feel the same. She isn’t sure she’s fully comfortable with the organisation he’s built up, and she suspects he knows it. After all, he’s sent Darcy.

Darcy is just as much an enigma; the same kind of round peg in a square hole that Carol often feels she is. Even under the awful fluorescent lights there’s something captivating about her, and Carol can’t stop staring at a tiny piece of hair that is forming a corkscrew curl at the nape of her neck. She wants to reach out and touch it. 

“Well,” says Darcy, “it’s been great.” 

“Come with me,” Carol says, before she can stop herself. It’s a lot more raw and earnest than she intends, and she can hear the sharp inhale of Darcy’s breath in the silence that stretches between them. “I need backup.”

She knows that Darcy knows she’s spent the last decade alone. She’s not foolish enough to think that Fury hasn’t briefed her. She doesn’t even have a good reason to give to herself why she’s so intent on this - it’s foolish and reckless and she knows Darcy will be more in the way than any use at all. 

“I’ve read your file,” says Darcy, though the self-assured tone she’d had all night has faded somewhat. “I know you don’t need help with shit.” 

Carol recovers enough to flash a wicked grin. “Yeah, but maybe I want company.”

Darcy sighs, running her hand through her hair. “Look, I’m not good at this. Last time I got involved a small town in New Mexico got blown up. If I’ve learned anything it’s that I’m not up for playing in the big leagues and I’m very happy being very much on the sidelines.” Carol notices Darcy’s hand is shaking a little. 

“Sounds like a story,” she says softly. 

Darcy snorts and looks up at the sky. “You could say that.” 

“I’ve got a deal for you,” says Carol. “Let me take you to Colorado - far away from your multi-headed, multi-tentacled Greek whatsit I’m probably supposed to be killing already -”

Darcy grins. “Betcha they’ve lost another dog while we were gambling with food poisoning.” 

“And after the thing is dead and the dog park is safe, you tell me the story.” 

Darcy shuffles her feet. “Deal,” she says, holding out her hand. 

Carol snaps, pulling Darcy towards her and wrapping an arm around Darcy’s waist while the other presses Darcy’s head into her shoulder. She hears Darcy make a startled ‘oof’ noise, but she’s already drawing on her power, letting it pour out of her in waves. The street around them glows faintly gold as she lifts up, on to her toes first, and then further, weightlessly into the air. Darcy’s fingers are clenched tightly to her shirt, digging into the skin over her scapula. Carol slips her feet beneath Darcy’s balancing her on top. 

Then, with the effortless grace she’s perfected after all this time, she flies. Darcy shrieks when they take off, but it quickly gives way to a curious silence. Carol can see Darcy peering with fascination down at the landscape below them. 

They land gently on a grassy knoll. Carol can see the SHIELD compound down below. Suited agents are swarming around it like ants, and a large electric fence is sending bright blue shocks up into the night. It’s hard to make out the creature penned in by the fence - great, green tentacles brush the wires, recoiling each time the fence sparked. A horrendous roar makes the ground shake as the beast flings its entire, bulbous body at the fence. 

“Better go!” Carol says cheerfully. 

“Have fun,” Darcy says, looking a little green and staring down at the creature with wide eyes. 

Carol brushes her hand, still glowing bright orange, over Darcy’s cheek tenderly. She can feel Darcy’s skin spark under her touch and she has to close her eyes and turn away or she’d never go at all. She hurtles herself down towards Scylla smashing through the thing’s skull in one swift motion. It falls, unmoving to the ground with an echoing ‘thump’. 

“OK!” she shouts. “Monster is dead.” 

There is a crackle of static and a quiet “oh, shit” from somewhere in the SHIELD encampment. 

She feels something is off before she can really put her finger on exactly what. Her skin prickles again in an uncomfortable way, and she feels her stomach turn unpleasantly. Her vision swims, and the air around her crackles with wild energy. It bursts from her in a column, like a spotlight reaching up into the sky. Then it goes quiet and she feels numb. She stumbles, falling to her knees. She can’t feel the grass under her fingers and she digs them into the earth. Her hands feel alien, detached. 

She’s breathing hard and she can hear it echoing in her own skull, maddeningly loudly. She slams her hands into the earth over and over trying to feel the impact - it get them off, she isn’t sure - while SHIELD agents buzz around her like bees. 

Then, at last, it all goes black. 

…

There is a persistent beeping above Carol’s head and a warm hand in her own. She squints as she opens her eyes blearily, blinded by the fluorescent light up above her. 

“Hey,” says Darcy in a soft voice, her fingers gently squeezing Carol’s and then untangling. Carol immediately feels their absence as her hand grows oddly cold. She was never cold anymore. 

“Ugh,” she says feelingly. 

“Yeah,” Darcy replies. “Good news is, Scylla is pretty dead. Like very impressively dead. Like I think you took her out in 30 seconds and we had like 50 suited up dudes with guns pissing themselves.” 

“And the bad news?”

“Well for a bit we thought you were dead, but I guess that’s good news now because you’re not.” Darcy bites her lip. “You had us worried.”

Carol lifts a hand from the bed, staring at it. Her fingertips are pale, almost blue, and she squeezes it into a fist. She closes her eyes and wills her power to come forth, waiting for the familiar spread of warmth to run through her veins. 

Nothing happens. 

Carol tries again. Nothing. She tries again. Nothing. She tries again. Nothing. 

Darcy’s fingers are warm when they close over Carol’s outstretched hand and it all feels so _wrong_.

“I’m gonna get the doctor,” says Darcy. “Don’t freak out.”

“What happened?” Carol’s tone is sharper than she’d like, but she feels like she’s just barely holding on to everything and that she’s fraying with every second. 

“Some side effect from Scylla,” says Darcy. “It’ll be OK. SHIELD is working on it.” 

Carol snaps, shoving Darcy’s hands aside and ripping wires off her body. The beeping monitor starts to go nuts as nurses flood the room. She feels like an animal, clawing at them, trying to keep them off her. The last thing she sees before they sedate her is Darcy’s frightened face, looking pale and wide-eyed back at her. And for the first time since she woke up she doesn’t feel lost. Then they jab a needle in her leg and she’s out. 

…

“You freaked out my intern,” is the first thing Fury says when she wakes up. He’s got his feet propped up on her bed and a stack of files open in his lap. He’s balder, and the eyepatch doesn’t suit him, but she’s oddly relieved to see him. 

“Only I get to freak out my interns,” he says. “You don’t get that privilege. I did not send you an intern to take her to Colorado and freak her out.”

“She started it,” is all Carol can say in response. 

“Hilarious,” replies Fury, closing the files with a decisive ‘thump’ and chucking them on the end of the bed. “Did the nurses start it too?”

Carol stares blankly up at the ceiling. 

“Oh, now we’re not talking. OK. Are we gonna run the whole teenage gambit now - you gonna shut yourself in your room and listen to rock and roll?”

“Rock and roll isn’t exactly teen angst material anymore,” says Carol. 

“I’m not your dad.”

“Shame, we look so much alike. I’d thought for sure -“

“I’m not your therapist either.” Fury sighs. “We think your powers will come back on their own, but it’s going to take time and patience.” 

Carol looks at him and he raises a finger to cut her off before she can speak. “Not your therapist,” he says. “Don’t want to hear about your feelings.” 

Carol rolls her eyes. Fury ignores her completely. “The doctor asked me to ask you to get the hell out and stop terrorising the staff. We’ve got a room for you here and I’ve assigned an _intern_ to help you out.” 

Fury grabs the stack of folders, resting a hand on her shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze before leaving her room. “Try to behave,” he says, as he shuts the door behind him. 

Carol throws an IV kit at the door. It’s not very satisfying. 

…

It’s weird to think that Carol lived decades of her life like this. She now feels so lifeless, hollow like she’s been carved out. She’s sent to live in a surprisingly homey apartment with Jane (who she’s never met but who Darcy seems to love), a clean-cut All American guy who seems to be 90% muscle and his grumpy one-armed sidekick and Thor. 

It’s not that she doesn’t like Thor, she does. In other circumstances she’d love Thor. But Thor is loud and happy and can drink her under the table and she just wants to wallow in being none of those things. 

Fury stops by on the first day with a _fruitcake_ of all things as a “housewarming” gift. 

“It’s not my house,” says Carol. 

“Yeah, we actually don’t know whose house it is,” Darcy chips in. Carol can hear the music blasting out of her earbuds from here, but Darcy seems unconcerned about her impending hearing loss and is happily bobbing along to it while putting numbers into a spreadsheet for Jane. “My money’s on Tony.”

Steve snorts from his spot at the kitchen table. “The kitchen has a floral-patterned backsplash and lace curtains. It’s not Tony’s.” 

“It’s mine,” says Fury, sounding delightfully exasperated. 

Steve’s eyebrows shoot up and Carol grins. “Fond of a floral backsplash?” 

“It’s a safe house. It’s meant to look _safe_.” 

“This is a safe house?” Darcy asks. “I just thought it was a perk of the job.” 

“It was until you idiots moved in.” Fury drops the fruitcake on the kitchen counter. “Don’t wreck it.” 

“Thanks for the fruitcake and the lace curtains, grandpa,” Darcy says absently. “I feel very safe.” 

Carol grins. “So do I.” 

Dinner’s a little awkward and it’s not until it’s halfway through that Carol realises everyone else is waiting to figure out why Fury’s here. He’s glaring at each of them in turn with his one good eye and managing to make eating carrots look vaguely menacing. It’s almost nostalgic, almost perfect. A lingering feeling of a time when she was whole, or something like it, and she’s overwhelmed with gratitude for Fury. He’s furiously stabbing sprouts in a way that makes Carol wonder how bad his depth perception is, but she just kicks him fondly under the table. 

They wash up together while pretending to ignore Darcy and Bucky watching in fascination from the doorway and whispering. 

She wonders at first what she’s done to deserve the safe house which seems to have the raggiest taggiest bunch of misfits Carol’s ever lived with in it. But like everything Fury does, she does begin to see the method in the madness. She finds herself put to work almost immediately by Jane and she’s not even sure if Jane is aware she’s done it. But before she can say ‘no’ she’s been handed a laptop and set up for data cleaning, which seems to involve cursing about csv sheets and finding missing brackets in a bunch of code for the most part. It’s when she gets excited about spotting a missing colon that’s keeping the data cleaning program from running and Darcy gives her a pitying look that she decides she needs to leave the house. 

Steve and Bucky appear out of nowhere while she’s putting her jacket on in a way that is far too smooth to be accidental. 

“I don’t need a babysitter,” she says. 

“Bucky does,” Steve says mildly, but Carol doesn’t like the determined look on his face. 

“Fury put you up to this?” 

Bucky snorts. “Just accept it. The man always gets what he wants.” 

Carol rolls her eyes and stands up, flipping her hair out from under the neck of her jacket. “Not with me, he doesn’t. I’m going alone.” 

Steve shifts his weight in a way that manages to be subtly intimidating and automatically Carol reaches down deep into herself to draw forth her power and… nothing. 

“I’m still Kree trained,” she says. “There’s no guarantee you’ll win this.” 

“Hey, no fighting in the house,” says Darcy. “Think of the curtains. Besides, you can take me. I’m useless in a fight but also technically Fury didn’t say who had to go with you, so I’m the best worst babysitter you’re gonna get.” She puts a hand on Steve’s arm and Carol is surprised to see the tension bleed out if it. 

“Besides,” Darcy says, looking at Carol. “You’re not the only one sick of Python.”

She’s tempted to kick up a fuss and refuse. She’s not even sure where she’s going but she’s sure she wants to go _alone_ , but it’s three on one now and the only one she’s sure she can take is Darcy. In the end she gives in and lets Darcy lead her out the door, an enormous rust-coloured bobble hat on her head. 

“So,” Darcy asks, her breath fogging up between them. “Where to?” 

Carol just shrugs and sticks her hands in her pockets. After a moment she feels Darcy’s fingers close around her arm and gently tug. 

“Inside or out?” Darcy asks. 

“Out,” says Carol. 

“C’mon.” Darcy leads them down several blocks, weaving through people with ease, her hand still holding Carol’s elbow all the while. They finally stop at a park with a grassy hill in the middle, and, grinning, Darcy leads her to the peak. It’s chilly, but pleasantly so, and Carol can see a decent stretch of the city spread out in front of them from where they stand at the top. 

“And that’s not all,” says Darcy. She dramatically points out a bench at the very peak. “It’s in memory of Edith Warburton, who I don’t know at all but I like that she’s got the best seat in the house. I come and say hi a lot.” 

Carol smiles. It’s hard not to be fond of Darcy, even if she isn’t at all sure what to do with her. She feels a little bit like she’s standing on a cliff’s edge and can’t tell if she wants to turn back or leap and bring everything that now feels just out of reach close enough to touch. Darcy flops onto the bench, looking out at the high rises ahead of them and brushing a curl out of her face. Carol forces herself to sit down too and stop looking. 

“So,” Carol says, “I believe you have a story.”

For a moment, Darcy looks confused. 

“About blowing up New Mexico and the last time you got involved,” Carol clarifies. “You promised.” 

Nervously, Darcy begins. She talks about Jane and her endless, relentless search for truth. About Thor - the impossibility of being faced not only with a Norse God but someone old enough to live in the mythology books she’d been given as a child. Old enough to have given his name to a day of the _week_. She talks about Loki and the destroyer, about her own helplessness in the face of the violence, and the way her life has been stolen, her freedom stripped as a result. Carol isn’t exactly surprised to find that SHIELD has placed her very firmly under its thumb given what had happened, but it does make her ache.

“I just find it impossible to fathom how _much_ older they are than we are. Like pre-Jesus older. And Jane is _dating_ that,” says Darcy, punctuating her point by waving her hands wildly in the air. “I mean, he’s ripped enough, I guess. If you like that sort of thing.”

Carol lets out a low laugh at that. “You don’t?”

“I like…” says Darcy, then she pauses, her hands hanging in the air in front of her. “I don’t know. I like it when Jane is happy.” 

Carol looks over, propping her head up on her arm which is leaning on the back of the bench. “And what about when you are happy?”

“Pop tarts,” Darcy says facetiously. “Those do me just fine.” 

Carol’s fingers reach out and brush a lock of Darcy’s hair aside. She runs the backs of her fingers across Darcy’s pale skin and she sees goosebumps rise in the trail they leave behind. Darcy swallows, and Carol can feel it beneath her fingers. Everything is pulled taut between them. The bowstring is pulled back and Carol wants nothing more than to release it, but she waits. 

Darcy turns to her, her lips slightly parted. She can see that Darcy’s pupils are blown wide. 

“Why me?” Darcy asks. 

“Why not?” Carol asks, running a thumb over Darcy’s lower lip. “You’re beautiful, funny, and you ate French-Chinese fusion just to make a point. And I…” Carol sighs, letting her hand fall to her side. “You make me feel grounded.”

Darcy swallows again and Carol can almost feel her gaze sweeping over her face like a brand. Then, all at once, Darcy seems to close off. 

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I can’t.” 

…

Thor takes her on a field trip to the morgue. 

It’s Fury’s idea, obviously, but Thor just sort of bundles her up and goodnaturedly marches her back to SHIELD’s HQ and into a morgue before she’s really sure what’s going on. 

Fury is standing next to the corpse of a dead woman with a substantial skull fracture. 

“Ah, good,” he says. “Have a look at this.” 

“What am I looking at?” Carol asks.

The woman looks young, copper skinned with dark brows and a head full of curly dark hair. 

“You’ve met before,” Fury says mildly. “This is Scylla.” 

Carol frowns. “The tentacle thing?” 

“One and only,” says Fury. “Turned into this after she died. Near as we can tell she’s similar to Asgardian.” 

“And cursed,” adds Thor helpfully. 

“Yeah,” Fury says drily, “and cursed.” 

“This is likely the source of your issue with your powers,” Thor says, dropping one huge hand on her shoulder. “So we must break the curse to resolve it.” 

“And how do we do that?” Carol asks flatly. “Am I supposed to be spouting tentacles?” 

“The curse turns an individual into a reflection of their true self,” Thor says mildly. 

Carol whistles looking down at the small body on the table in front of her. “Wow, you were a _bitch_.” 

“And you’re human,” Fury says mildly. 

“Great, so who I am on the inside is… nothing.” 

Thor is watching her in a way she finds mildly unsettling. “Take heart,” he says, his fingers squeezing her shoulder surprisingly gently, “there are very few people who could have received this curse and come out the other side so unchanged. It speaks volumes about you, should you be willing to listen.” 

Carol blinks, and she thinks she sees Fury smirk but it’s gone before she can fully register it. 

“So how do I break it?”

Thor looks sheepish. “Not my area of expertise,” he says. “But most curses of this type can be broken if you discover the true purpose of the caster. Magic requires balance - it takes as it gives. If you can restore the balance the curse will be reduced to nothing and you will be as you were.” 

“How do I -“ Carol waves her hands in a vague motion “- restore the balance.”

“The answer lies within you,” says Fury, looking more pleased than he should. “Try meditating.” 

Thor grins. “Think on it. Why have you become as you are?” 

Scylla’s face looks even younger on the table. Beautiful and hollow, with no trace of the beast she had been. Carol wonders if she’d tried meditating. 

...

Carol knows when she’s being handled. She lets it happen, though she tells herself she’s playing nice as a favour to Fury even when it feels like a lie. She spars with Steve and Bucky, she dutifully practices trying to summon her powers, and she finds errors in Jane’s code. In the evenings Darcy puts on movies sometimes as part of her “Old Fart Re-Education Camp” and she sits as contently as she can while Darcy introduces Steve, Bucky and Thor to what she considers the finer points of modern pop culture. And Star Wars. More Star Wars than Carol is really ready for. 

She’s in the living room, flexing her fingers and trying to will something, _anything_ to come forth when the couch shifts beside her. 

“Maybe you’re trying too hard,” says Darcy, watching Carol’s hand curiously. “What does it normally feel like?”

“I don’t really think about it,” Carol says. “It’s like moving my hand. I just think and it… happens.” 

“And now?”

Carol scowls. “It doesn’t happen.” 

Darcy looks thoughtful, still staring at Carol’s fingers flexing aimlessly in front of her. 

“It’s odd,” says Carol, “I used to think I’d been given these powers by the Kree. They used to control them, limit them, and while I thought it was for my own safety I always resented them for it. I resent all of it now - what they took from me, the way they used me. But not this power. Because it came from Marvell, because I took it, because it was _mine_. And now that’s been stripped from me too. Like my memories and my life were.” 

Darcy’s fingers cover Carol’s own, and Carol pulls her hand away. 

“You’ll get them back,” says Darcy. 

“You don’t know that.” 

“Thor says you’re cursed,” Darcy says mildly. “He likes you a lot. But I guess he likes anyone who can death punch a tentacle beast.” 

“Not anymore,” Carol says flatly. 

“Sure, but, like, the person you were before shot some kind of turbo nuclear warp core and ate the power in it as a fuck you,” says Darcy, “if what Fury says about you is true. So, I think the powers don’t make the death punch, the people make the death punch.” 

Carol stares. 

“Like you can death punch with your personality. And inner strength. Your ballsiness is a death punch.” 

“That’s… weirdly nice,” says Carol. 

“Yeah,” says Darcy with a sigh, “that’s kind of my calling card. I guess what I’m trying to say is, even if your powers don’t come back you’re still the same person. And that person is a good person and a person worth being.” 

There’s a long beat of silence. “Thanks,” says Carol. “So, I shouldn’t keep trying?” 

Darcy shrugs. “Look, I get helplessness, I really do. It’s a horrible feeling and it’s a constant presence around here: everyone I know is literally a superhero or a genius, and I clean data and make coffee. But the only way I can get on with things is to do the things I can do well. I am not going to save the planet but you bet your ass I’m gonna save Jane’s research so she and Thor can.” 

“It’s about acceptance,” says Darcy. “I think that’s what you need. From everything that Thor’s told me, this is supposed to show who you really are. So, get to know her. Know what she can do. And do it well.” 

…

What Carol can do is drink. She can drink, and she can lose every sparring match to Steve and she can sit around feeling useless. What Carol can do is watch Darcy. She watches the silhouette Darcy cuts in the kitchen when she’s blearily leaning against the sink cradling her first cup of coffee. She watches the gentle curve of her waist as she slouches against Jane watching a film. She watches the way her hair curls over her ears, the way her glasses rest on her nose, the way her fingers look when she types. 

She watches it all and she can’t look away. 

The whole house has started joking about her mission to find herself, buying her Live Laugh Love pillows and mindfulness workbooks. And she does give it a try, but all she sees is how well her body fits into the negative space of Darcy’s. 

Ultimately, it’s not herself she wants to find. 

… 

“Can you teach me to fight?” Darcy asks. She’s been sat on the sidelines, watching Carol and Steve spar curiously. Her hair is caught in two plaits and Carol immediately thinks that this is probably a terrible idea but she also definitely wants to do it. 

“Sure,” she says. 

Darcy looks good in just yoga pants and a tank top and Carol imagines a version of this where Darcy is also looking at her. It’s easy to do, sometimes she thinks she sees it, but it’s easy to see what you want when all your thinking is wishful. 

She teaches Darcy the stances, letting her fingers run over Darcy’s skin as she positions her arms and legs for just a second too long and no longer. She teaches her to block, to parry and to kick, careful to always be gentle and neat. 

“I’d better go,” says Steve, and it’s almost unnaturally loud. She jumps, having forgotten he was there. He’s looking between them curiously and flashes her a tentative grin. 

“Happy fighting,” he says. “You kids behave.” 

Carol’s throat is oddly dry. She feels exposed, that somehow Steve having seen has turned something private into something vulgar. But if Darcy feels the same, she doesn’t let it show. 

They go again, parrying, blocking, fighting in an odd slow motion as Darcy gets used to the motions. She hasn’t done this since the beginning of her Kree training, and it’s oddly meditative. She focuses on the feeling of warmth where Darcy’s skin touches hers. 

Again, she punches and Darcy blocks it, moving it aside. She kicks and Darcy spins out of the way. Darcy kicks and without thinking Carol grabs her leg, sending her off balance and pulling her close. If it were a real fight she’d take her down, but instead she stops. Darcy’s face is close to hers and all she can hear is their heavy breathing in the quiet room. There’s a faint golden glow and it’s lighting up the warmth in Darcy’s cheeks. 

Carol closes the gap and kisses her, pressing her lips against Darcy’s. Her hands are warm as she brushes her thumbs across Darcy’s cheeks, and Darcy’s own hands tangle in her hair in a way that is positively delightful. They break apart, and Darcy looks wide-eyed at Carol. 

“Your hands,” she says. 

They’re glowing, humming with a power that feels so right she’s not even noticed it’s back. She laughs delightedly, clapping them together and Darcy steps back, watching her. 

“I should go,” she says. 

Carol barely manages to say “no, wait…” but Darcy is already gone. Her hands grow cold again and no matter how hard she tries she can’t get it back.

...

“You’ve been staring,” Darcy says, sliding a cup of coffee over the island counter at her. Carol catches it and feels the warmth of it in her hands as she cradled the cup. 

“Can’t help it,” says Carol. 

Darcy swallows, and Carol watches the way her neck moves, the gentle flush of red across her chest. 

“I don’t do this,” says Darcy. 

“What?” 

“This.” Darcy gestures between the two of them. “I know what you want, but I don’t think you want it with me. I’m not very good at this.” 

“Staring?” 

“Stop it,” Darcy says. “You know what I mean: flirting, being together. With you.” 

“Why not?” 

Darcy sighs. “It’s a lot. Look, it would be one thing if it were just Colorado, but I don’t think it’s a good idea when you’re going through something like this.” 

“And if I do?” says Carol. “Because to be clear, I do think it’s a good idea. You see something in me that I don’t. You are _infuriating_ and everywhere and on my mind all the time. You ate snails and Kung-Pow chicken with me. And you seem to just… fit. I can’t explain it -“ 

“You’re supposed to be finding yourself.” 

“That’s just a theory,” Carol says. “And the person I want to be is a person who fits with you. Someone who has stuck by me with no reason to, who has tried to help me with no reward. Who isn’t here because she has superpowers but is determined to help anyway. Who seems to know what I need before I do. I want to be _that_ person.” 

Darcy looks a little taken aback. Carol stands, stepping forward into Darcy’s space and reaching out to cup the back of her neck. 

It’s Darcy who closes the gap this time and presses their lips together. It’s like something Carol hasn’t even realised is clenched in her chest begins to unfurl, as the bonds break and her power rushes forth, curling around them white hot and frantic. Darcy gasps and Carol starts laughing, holding her hands up in front of her and finally feeling wondrously, gloriously whole. _This_ , this is what she’s wanted since Darcy first sat down across from her in Pancho’s.

“You did it,” she says. 

“I did,” Darcy replies, looking a little awed. 

“Although,” Carol says smirking, “it seems to only work when we’re kissing.” 

Darcy grins, and before Carol can do much, Darcy tugs her into her bedroom, pulling her shirt off and tossing it aside. 

“I thought you didn’t do this,” Carol teases, more breathless than she’d like to admit. 

“Yeah, well,” says Darcy, running one finger underneath the strap of Carol’s bra and then down to trace along the band, “you talked me into it.” 

Carol laughs again, and tugs Darcy’s shirt off over her head. Darcy’s fingers are teasing, skirting over her nipples and then down under the band of her bra and back up again. She pulls them both down onto the bed, wanting to press every inch of their skin together. Darcy’s laughing, trailing kisses from behind Carol’s ear, down her neck and down at last to the space between her breasts. 

Darcy looks up at her questioningly and waits for Carol’s approval before tugging her trousers off. Carol’s already arching her body up, pressing it towards Darcy’s and pulling her as close as she can manage. 

It gets messier after that, all fumbling, glorious limbs and Carol’s skin is practically glowing in between them. She presses sloppy kisses to every inch of Darcy’s skin she can reach, and tries to touch every centimetre. She comes apart with Darcy’s fingers inside her and her tongue on her clit, and then again from just the feeling of her fingers alone. And after, after she’s returned the favour, she kisses each of those fingers individually and tucks them close against her heart. 

They lie tangled together, Carol’s fingers in Darcy’s hair and Darcy’s hand possessively on Carol’s hip. She can still feel her powers thrumming pleasantly within her. 

“Did we just break a curse by fucking?” Darcy asks, stifling a laugh. 

“I think we did.” 

“That’s not how it works in fairy stories,” says Darcy. 

Carol shrugs. “Maybe not, but a lot of them need true love’s first kiss to break the spell, don’t they?”

“And what, I’m your true love?”

Darcy makes it sound sarcastic but Carol desperately wants to say _yes_. 

“Well, you broke the curse,” is what she says instead. 

But for the first time since she’s come back to Earth, the last shred of displacement leaves. Here, in Darcy’s ramshackle room, covered in movie posters and disorganised notebooks, here at last she feels at home. 

...

_I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,  
I love you directly without problems or pride:  
I love you like this because I don’t know any other way to love,  
except in this form in which I am not nor are you,  
so close that your hand upon my chest is mine,  
so close that your eyes close with my dreams._  
\- Pablo Neruda, One Hundred Love Sonnets: XVII


End file.
